by Princess
Soon it all would fade to black. There would never be another chance.
Go to her.
His gaze moved over the treeline in silent distress.
As soon as the chaperon comes, you’re not going to be allowed anywhere near me.
At those remembered words, he suddenly slid a fresh sheet of paper toward him, dipped the quill in the inkwell, and wrote swiftly, his heart pounding.
Sir,
It is inadvisable to send more sta f at this time. Her Highness is well and our location is secure.
Your servant,
D.S.
Quickly, before he could change his mind, as though his very life depended on it, he folded the page and sealed it with wax.
It was the most selfish thing he had ever done, the most deceitful, and the most necessary.
He pushed back from the desk, strode out of his office to the foyer, and barked for Alec.
The young lieutenant came running. “Sir?”
“Deliver this message to His Majesty.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find out what you can about Orsini’s progress. Come back tomorrow using one of the alternate routes we’ve outlined.”
Alec saluted. “Yes, Colonel.”
Darius turned to go, then hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder at his aide. “Er, Alec?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Where is Her Highness?” he ventured.
If Alec found his question amusing, wisely, he did not show it. “I’m not certain, sir. I’ll find out.”
“Good. I’ll be in my room.” Darius lifted a pear from the freshly arranged fruit bowl on the console table in the hall and took a large bite as he jogged up the stairs.
Above, he went into his small, drab, spartan room and crossed to the sturdy, oaken armoire. He opened the door with a click and reached in to pull out a long, slender case with a handle. He carried it to the bed, then opened the case and stared down at the sleek, expensive rifle he’d had made for the express purpose of blowing Napoleon’s head off.
It was the most beautiful gun he’d ever owned, artfully crafted for precision.
He ran his fingertips down the smooth, mahogany barrel. The smooth-bore flintlock was Dutch-designed. It had a range of one hundred fifty yards, with a special folding telescope attachment for enhanced aim.
He closed the case. He would practice later.
Putting the black leather case back into the armoire, he went to the side table to freshen up. The water revived him after hours of desk work. He splashed his face, brushed his teeth, slapped on some cologne, combed his hair, and mocked himself for these attentions to vanity, knowing he was going to see Serafina.
He glanced in the mirror at the man there, retying his simple cravat. Warily, he met the stare of the half-breed stranger with the mean, fiery eyes and the hideous scar on his mouth, an everlasting reminder that he had never been wanted anywhere.
Yet Serafina seemed to require him.
Why me? he thought for the thousandth time.
“Don’t question it,” he dryly advised his reflection. He left his room, locked it, and went in search of the royal protectee.
Striding down the second floor’s balustraded landing, which overlooked the entrance hall, he bellowed once more for Alec.
“Haven’t found her yet, sir!” The lieutenant appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
“What?” Darius peered over the rail, frowning down at him.
“No one has seen her in hours. The men thought she was with you!”
“She’s not with me!” His stomach suddenly plummeted in dread. “You mean to say they haven’t seen her?”
“Yes, sir! No one has.”
“Goddamn it, why the hell have I got two dozen men here guarding her? Do I have to do everything myself? Did you check her rooms?”
“Yes, sir. She’s not in there.”
“Well, she’s got to be somewhere! I’m going to throttle her,” he muttered under his breath as he searched the house himself, just to be sure, then marched out to the stable.
He prayed she had merely wandered off, perhaps exploring the secret tunnels he had shown her earlier. He doubted this, for she had been afraid of the bats, but it was better than thinking the French had somehow managed to snatch her already.
One of the men found her maid. Darius cornered the woman. Pia stammered that Her Highness had spoken earlier of collecting plant samples.
“How dare she leave without my permission?” he demanded, as though the poor woman had an answer.
Standing around him and the maid, his men stepped back, paling to see their usually unflappable colonel angry—and he was angry, angrier than he had cause to be, but her disappearance struck some inexplicable nerve in the core of him. She had no right leaving him without saying anything. What if he couldn’t find her? Panic clutched at his chest, throbbed in his wounded shoulder which she had stitched.
Five hundred bloody acres, he thought as he swung up onto his stallion’s back. She could be anywhere. He drove his heels into Jihad’s midnight flanks and galloped out to the fields to find her.
Cradled in the field’s tall grasses, Serafina had dozed off as she watched cloud shapes in the sky.
In her light, restful sleep, she fancied she heard rolling thunder over the hills, then she felt a vibration in the earth beneath her body, like the pounding of mighty hooves. Her awareness of him took shape as it had last night in the maze. The thunder formed into his voice, angrily calling her name.
She realized she wasn’t dreaming and sat up suddenly with a gasp.
The sun was setting! She had lost all track of time. As she scanned the surrounding fields, he burst into view, sweeping up over the crest of the next hill astride his Andalusian stallion. He had not yet seen her, shouting her name as he glanced in both directions.
She could just make out the furious rictus of his face as he drove the horse at a ruthless gallop, cutting across the far end of the field. The horse’s tail streamed out like black smoke behind them, and the setting sun glinted on the man’s weapons.
She stood, heart pounding, not sure if she should call out to him or not. She realized he was looking for her, but the sight of the hellish pair frightened her. If he turned the horse toward her, they would trample her.
“Serafina!”
She heard, then, something more than anger in his deep voice—fear, pain drove the rolling thunder. Set me as a seal on your heart, as a seal on your arm; for stern as death is love . . . The words came to her out of nowhere as she stood staring at man and horse, awestruck by their terrible beauty. It was a quote from the Song of Songs she had read once and never forgotten. Relentless as the netherworld is devotion; its flames are a blazing fire. Deep waters cannot quench love, nor floods sweep it away.
He saw her.
Serafina did not move. She was not sure she could have if she tried, frozen by his enraged stare.
He is coming for me now.
Darius looked away as he reeled the horse around. Jihad reared in the turn. She heard his deep, harsh command, spoken in that same unknown language in which he had cursed Philippe, then the horse leaped forward and they charged her.
She stared, unable to move, transfixed by their terrible beauty. Defenseless, mesmerized by heady terror, she watched Darius Santiago and his hell-horse bearing down on her like one of the riders of the Apocalypse. Was this how Philippe felt in those last seconds?
As they neared, she could see in his face just how furious he was.
“Serafina!”
No fear. He would not hurt her. She must believe this. Steadily, she watched him approaching like a black storm, but she held her ground, for her heart whispered the truth to her. It was the wound inside him, driving his rage. Only she could help him.
Calm him. Soothe him.
A few feet from her, Darius pulled the stamping, snorting black to a rearing halt. She watched as daisies were trampled beneath the sharp, mighty hooves.
As he
reeled the horse in a circle, trying to quiet him, he blasted her with a fiery glare over his shoulder, his black hair tousled, his chiseled face flushed with anger. “So there you are.”
She said nothing, gazing at him in gentleness.
“What the hell did you think you were doing, running off without saying anything to anyone? I have been looking for you for half an hour!”
“I am safe,” she said softly.
“How was I supposed to know that?” he demanded. “You should have taken men with you!”
“Darius, calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!”
She shrugged, turned, and walked away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked incredulously.
She picked a daisy and did not answer. Counting its petals with a show of nonchalance, she ambled toward the woods, quaking inwardly.
He spurred his horse and followed. “I asked you a question.”
“I cannot talk with you when you’re in this state.” She walked on, but heard that he had stopped.
“It’s your fault I’m in this state!”
She stepped into the twilit woods, listening for him, wondering whether or not he would follow. He didn’t.
Warily, she glanced over her shoulder at him. He had dismounted and was standing by his horse, head down, apparently striving to get his emotions under control.
When he looked up, his dramatic face in profile to her as he gazed out over the field, the fiery glow of sunset lit his face, turned his amber skin rose-gold, and caught threads of maroon and blue-black in his silky hair.
Beautiful.
He blew out his breath and raked a hand through his hair.
Staring at him from the bosky wood, she touched her belly vaguely, low, where a strange flutter of warmth had begun to pulse.
All of a sudden, an extraordinarily naughty idea occurred to her.
No, she didn’t dare!
But of course she did.
Her heart suddenly raced as she watched Darius wearily turn to the horse and run the stirrups up on the saddle, knotting the reins to leave Jihad to graze. She could tell by his slow, heavy motions that he wasn’t angry anymore.
Biting her lip to hold back a nervous, giddy laugh, Serafina turned toward the woods again with a new sense of excitement, eager to thwart him and vex him for being so mean. Her gaze darted about the surrounding rocks and trees, coming to rest at a stand of young saplings nearby. Feeling reckless, she fled soundlessly into the saplings’ midst.
Chagrined, impatient, and begrudgingly contrite, Darius trudged toward the woods, head down, as he peeled off his black riding gloves and lightly slapped them against his palm, considering whether or not to grovel.
How could he lose his temper like that? he thought in self-loathing. Mostly, he was relieved that she had faced him without fear. He did not think he could ever bear again to see that terror of him in her eyes, as when he’d looked up from slaughtering Philippe Saint-Laurent and found her staring at him in horror.
She was tougher than anyone gave her credit for, he had to admit. She looked fragile, but his rare hothouse flower had the resilience of a wild daisy.
He stepped from open field into shadowy wood. “Your Highness?”
Not seeing her or hearing her, he strode about fifteen feet down the wide path, where he came to a small, grassy clearing. He stopped, and his shoulders slumped.
Once more, she was nowhere in sight. He heaved a sigh.
“Your Highness?”
No answer.
“I see. This old game.” He turned, looking around. “It wasn’t amusing when you were five. Come out. Now.”
She didn’t.
“That’s an order!”
He heard a nymph’s silvery laughter and a few snapping twigs. He whirled in the direction of the sound and immediately gave chase, grinning in spite of himself as he shoved his way through the branches of a cluster of saplings.
He came out into a place where the trees were thinner. Walking slowly, he glanced one way and the other, but he saw no errant princesses.
“Very well, perhaps I deserve this, but Serafina, you know full well I am responsible for you. I will not tolerate you running off by yourself. What if I had needed you for something? What if something had happened—”
Something small and round pelted him in the back of the head.
“Ow!” He spun about face as the acorn she had thrown at him bounced to the leafy forest floor.
He scowled into the thicket that lay in the direction from which the missile had come, rubbing the back of his head. “You are beginning to irritate me, Your Highness. I’m in no mood. You can see it’s getting dark. Supper will be ready soon.”
He could feel her stifled laughter all around him. Her merriment permeated the glade like the babbling of the brook, which was not too far away, judging by the sound.
In spite of himself, Darius was charmed. He smiled ruefully. “Ah, Cricket,” he murmured. “My whimsy, mischief garden girl.”
By his feet, he found evidence of her passing—a daisy she had dropped.
He crouched down and picked it up gently, recalling the countless times she had tried to make peace with him since that April night three years ago. It had been the hardest thing he had ever done, resisting her that night. Only slightly less heartbreaking were the times she had come to him afterward, making blushing, awkward apologies. He had lived by the rule that it was imperative never to weaken toward her. It was best for her to forget him.
For that reason, he had met all her friendly overtures, all her attempts to include him in her activities with her friends, with an aloof, stony silence.
He closed his eyes, nestling his cheek against the flower’s petals.
So gentle.
A wave of loneliness and loss washed through him. How like her, forcing him to play with her when he had refused, given the choice. Hide and seek, her favorite game. Was it not he, in truth, who was hiding? Always hiding.
He opened his eyes again and was still, for he could feel her watching him.
“Why do you go on forgiving me?” he asked softly, not knowing whether she could hear him, not sure if he could bear to hear the answer.
He checked the wave of emotion and rose, the flower trailing from his hand. He walked to the center of the glade and looked around.
“Very well,” he declared to the woods at large. “You have every right to be cross at me. I was rude to you this morning. I ordered you to entertain yourself, and when you complied, I ended up screaming at you. I’m sorry. Will you come out now?”
He heard a small, feminine snort from behind a cluster of wild vines.
He smiled craftily to himself and crept nearer, but she must have seen him coming, for when he thrust his arms into the twisting branches and parted them with a triumphant cry, he found she had already eluded him.
“Hmm.” He walked back toward the center of the grove and looked around. “Perhaps you will accept my apology when I say I have taken steps already to make it up to you.”
He listened, certain he had her full attention. Where was the chit?
“There will be no chaperons come to plague you,” he announced.
He heard branches move and looked over to see a pair of violet eyes peering out at him from between the green leaves.
He let out a hearty shout and sprang toward her. She shrieked and bounded off like a doe, crashing through the woods. He chased, feeling his heartbeat thrumming in his veins.
He laughed as she bared her ankles and knees, climbing over a large log barring the path ahead of him. She shrieked again in mock terror when she saw him, yanked her skirts over the log, and kept running down the path, laughing, her curls flying, daisies falling behind her as the wreath of flowers on her head came undone. Daisies tangled in her long, black hair.
Darius leaped the mossy log as she disappeared around the bend in the path, but he could still see her pale dress through the trees, draping her slender
body, fleeting and graceful. Heart pounding, he got her in sight again as he rounded the bend, and then, in a burst of speed, he sprinted up behind her and tackled her. She twisted in his arms, trying to squirm free even as she was falling with him. That was how she ended up lying on her back under him, their faces inches apart.
Breathing hard, he grinned at her. “Got you.”
She gave him a defiant pout, but her eyes were sparkling under their thick, velvet lashes.
Resting on his elbows, he plucked the last daisy from her hair and brushed it down her nose. When she wrinkled her nose and turned her face away, he tickled her neck with it.
She laughed, still slightly out of breath. “Stop that, you rotten beast.”
“Am I heavy?”
“A ton!”
“Good.” He tickled her under the chin with the flower.
She smacked his hand away, giving him a harmless scowl. Playfully, he scowled back at her, then she smiled, as if she could not help herself. Such a smile. It took his breath away.
Pure innocence. Pure sweetness shining from her violet eyes. Not for the glorious Anatole, not for some blue-blooded prince, but for him—the nothing. The worthless, Gypsy bastard. His playfulness faded.
“What is it?” she whispered uncertainly as the crickets sang around them and the breeze sighed through the boughs far, far above.
“You.” His voice was captured in his throat. As if he were a boy, his hand trembled as he cupped her face. He felt clumsy, inept. Her creamy cheek was like satin, and his touch was reverent.
She searched his eyes, looking startled.
“You are so beautiful,” he choked out.
“Ohh, Darius,” she whispered with a melting smile, even as her body softened under him. She slipped her arms around his neck and hugged him close. “Thank you.”
He savored her innocent embrace in silence. He was in heaven, wrapped in her loveliness. He could feel her ripe, firm, perfect breasts pressed to his chest, and he ached to touch them. He could feel her flat belly, her womanly hips cradling his pelvis.
When she drew back and gazed up at him, her eyes promised him that everything she had to give was his for the taking, his alone. Whatever her reasons, however misguided, she chose him, and, God, how he wanted her. His whole body was trembling against her.